


"Hmmm. You're dying. Fuck."

by RabidRabbit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt is so done with this shit, Short and Silly, So is jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRabbit/pseuds/RabidRabbit
Summary: Yes, humans are vulnerable and squishy, but this is starting to get ridiculous.Or:How Jaskier almost dying becomes just part of life for our favorite duo.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 141





	"Hmmm. You're dying. Fuck."

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came into being as a result of a forum discussion about what Geralt's reaction would be to someone dying after one of the folks there had a non-soppy dream about the bloke for once. Someone came up with the title of this little fic and it wouldn't leave me alone so I just had to write this down to get it out of my system.

Jaskier reminded Geralt about all the reasons he didn’t usually travel with common human companions just about every other hour.  
The man came dangerously close to freezing to death well before Geralt himself noticed the cold, he tired more easily that even the most elderly of witchers, and he was utterly incapable of defending himself when Geralt wasn’t around to drag him to safety by the scruff of his neck. 

The first time the bard had come seriously close to dying had been a night of great panic for both of them. Just a single arrow that hadn’t even been meant for him had nearly taken Jaskier out of the world, only the combination of Roach’s speed and the lucky presence of a military encampment with a proper healer less than a mile off saving his life before he managed to drown in his own blood.  
The puckered scar it had left between his ribs was a fantastic mark of bravery for the ladies though, once it had healed over and he’d stopped yelping when someone even pointed at it. 

The second time had been a cuckolded husband, thinking to take his revenge with a dagger in the dark.  
The bloke hadn’t noticed his own death coming until after Geralt’s knife had cut his throat, blood spraying over Jaskier’s utterly surprised face as he turned to see what the commotion was about.  
They’d had to leave town right quickly after that, another crossed out speck on the map in the witcher’s head, another place he shouldn’t be coming near again for at least a single human lifetime.

Neither of those had managed to give the bard a sense of self-preservation. He still wandered around with his head in the clouds, still warmed every bed and haystack he could manage to talk his way into with whoever happened to be willing, still doggedly followed Geralt’s footsteps despite the dangers involved, and he _loved_ it all.

So yes, the witcher was very much aware of the fact that his ‘not friend but damn if I lose him’ was as much a magnet for trouble as he himself was.  
He now routinely carried a chest of human-friendly medication and painkillers as big as his own potions kit, and kept an much closer eye on insignificant things like the weather and sick commoners when they traveled together.  
It didn’t prevent Jaskier’s regular forays into the first stages of dying, but it _did_ keep him amongst the living and at Geralt’s side.

It was just that, when he noticed the much too rapid heartbeat and the sharp stench of panic in his companion for the third time in less than a week, it ceased to be disturbing and started to become annoying. 

“Hmmm.” he said, sniffing at the spoon Jaskier had been using to stir the mix of onions and berries he’d been making for dinner. 

“You’re dying. Fuck.” 

It was the only thing he could think of to say that wouldn’t be considered entirely insensitive. 

He could scold the younger man for just assuming every fruit he saw was edible.  
He could ask how much of it he’d eaten.  
He could pet the bard’s head and ply him with the very expensive anti-toxins he knew were in his panniers because he’d just bought them a few days ago. 

Instead, he tugged on Jaskier’s arm until the bard stood on unsteady feet, then proceeded to punch his not-friend in the stomach with enough force to leave him bruised for weeks. 

“Wha-” was the only thing the poor sod could say before he started hurling up whatever he’d eaten, gasping for breath as his chest locked up and his eyes teared. 

Geralt did pet his back once the only thing left to throw up was bile -stinking but perfectly human- and led the bard to a cleaner spot by the fire before leaving to grab a mostly full waterskin.

“That was, without a doubt, the most violent and painful way you saved my life yet.” 

“Hmmm.”

“I guess you don’t hear it often, but thanks for hitting me.” 

An unintended snort escaped him at that, quickly cut of but there all the same. He pushed the skin he’d brought over into the bard’s face to wipe the smirk off of it. 

“Drink all of that. You need to flush whatever’s caused that out of your blood.” 

He waited for Jaskier to nod and start drinking -panic usually made him more obedient- then took the forgotten pot from the flames to take his annoyance out on the ruined remains of their dinner, scrubbing at the blackened mess with enough force to make it regret its very existence.

For the bloody bard might be a nuisance, an annoying burr that wouldn’t leave his boot, but he was _Geralt’s_ nuisance, and the witcher’d be damned if he let any harm come to him.


End file.
